Cloak and Dagger (The IMA Book 1) Read Online Free PDF Page B

had already finished my homework while Alvarez had been blathering on with the lesson. As I filled in the multitude of missing accent marks with red pen, my dad's final warning ringing in my ears. It had been so strange that I'd chalked it up to parental distress and said nothing more than “Um, sure.” I wondered if there had been something more to his words than I thought. I stared down at my homework. Now it was full of cubes, all sizes, from different angles.
    Promise me, Christina .
    What was that even supposed to mean ?
    “ Christina!”
    I jumped when Alvarez's ice-blue eyes landed on me. “ Por favor, lee numéro cinco .”
    And, pushing such concerns from my mind, I did.
     
    Michael:
    I bought a one-way ticket to Barton, Oregon at the airport. With the assistance of a Brooks Brothers suit, I could play the role of the successful young entrepreneur just well enough. I bought an espresso and a copy of The Wall Street Journal . “Business trip,” I explained to the attractive barista, who nodded in sympathy as she handed me my drink and my change.
    It was early. Too early for a cross-country flight. Many of the shop lights were still extinguished, and I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the dark glass of a Mexican restaurant. I looked, I decided, taking a sip of the espresso, like a man with a plane to catch. Then I winced. The coffee was bitter and tasted cheap, but at least it made me alert. I drank half before tossing the cup. My baggage went on a conveyor belt to be checked. I slipped off my loafers and put them on top of my briefcase in one of the gray plastic bins.
    “ Can I see some ID?” the officer asked.
    With a polite smile, I handed her my card. Edward Collins; 6'2”, blond hair, blue eyes. Twenty-seven-years-old. None of this was strictly true.
    She glanced at the picture, a cursory scan with no real interest, and waved me through the metal detector; her eyes were already beginning to focus on the British couple behind me.
    Easy.
    Once I was on the plane, I pulled out my laptop and accessed the file I had hastily constructed on Rubens Parker during the wait in the airport terminal. It was disguised as a company report. The words of the real plan were typed in boldface font and needed to be strung together for the message to be comprehensible.
    Even though I could have recited it from memory, I skimmed through the information the file contained. The man, Rubens Parker, was a forty-six-year-old programmer possessing a high-ranking position within the software engineering industry. His wife was thirty-nine; an ex-model from the Dominican Republic. She spent most of her free time designing clothing for her fashion line. They had one child, an eighteen-year-old daughter who was attending a reputable all-girls' school and on the fast track to a liberal arts college like Reed, or Sarah Lawrence.
    What might the parents pay to get their precious daughter back? Taking hostages was messy but, if well-executed, the financial gain alone could make it worthwhile. She seemed sheltered, soft. If I were them , I thought, I would pay quite a lot.
    “ Would you like anything to drink?”
    I didn't lift my eyes from the laptop. “Perhaps later.”
    “ We're going to take off soon,” the attendant informed me. “You'll need to put that away.”
    I closed the computer obediently. “Do I have time to make a quick phone call?”
    “ Hurry.” She repeated her initial offer to the people behind me, who took her up on it.
    There were few other passengers in first class. Two men of Middle Eastern descent were discussing the stock market, and the businessman—the one who wanted the drink—and an elderly gentlewoman that looked British were both reading e-books on their Kindles. None of these people were particularly interesting but I kept an eye on them, regardless. The IMA had many enemies, with about a thousand different faces.
    First class was expensive. But to the IMA, privacy was invaluable. I would not be